


Whispers in the Dark

by anotherhobbitt



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Mention of alcohol, POV Second Person, Unrequited Love, just pure angst, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 18:24:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4232115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherhobbitt/pseuds/anotherhobbitt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You try to form a coherent commentary to the last 8 months, to why you have 15 memory sticks and 2 CDs of remixed music, and to why you have around 500 pictures of Beca Mitchell on your phone. </p><p>A sad little one-shot in which Chloe Beale and Cynthia Rose have something in common.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whispers in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> I got caught up in my "Chloe and Cynthia Rose have a secret friendship which consists of them meeting up and ranting about how unrequited love sucks because Beca's dense, and Stacie is looking at everybody but Cynthia" au and I ended up writing a tumblr post and a fic. So here you go. Enjoy!  
> Un-beta'd, all mistakes are my own!

 

You're bullshitting a 4,000 word essay for your History of Art course when you realise you might just be in love with Beca Mitchell. Not because she likes art, or because you're unconsciously mimicking how she hunches over with a laptop, or because she hasn't left your head since August. You stop your train wreck of an essay to muck around on your phone, and absently scrolling through your pictures, and it turns out every snapchat you've saved this semester is of the grumpy DJ. With the occasional Aubrey from a sincerely unflattering angle, almost every picture on your damn phone involves Beca Mitchell.

It's quite a calm realisation, as you knew it was really just a matter of time. You already knew. You just didn't want to know, because then it would be more than a simple college crush. And you're not sure what to do with that, apart from keep pining over a girl who was nothing if not uninterested. So you try to calm your heart rate, which has more than doubled in the last 20 seconds. No big deal.

Your thoughts, and your essay, are broken by a heavy knock at your door.

Mentally running through a list of people who would visit you or Aubrey at, crap, 1:53 on a Thursday morning, you grab your dressing down and potter towards the door.

You didn't expect her to be there, slightly more than tipsy, leaning against the peeling green frame with a hand over her heart.

You usher Cynthia Rose inside and sit her on the couch, prising away the bottle of whiskey she's clutching like a lifeline. You look her in the eyes and tell her not to move. Grabbing the red blanket from your bed, you hurriedly fill a glass of water, and mix a mug of hot chocolate. Having Aubrey, student cuisine extraordinaire, as a roomie comes with perks of the hot chocolate variety.

Cynthia Rose is right as you left her, slumped against your couch, and radiating self-pity. You sit down, place the drinks on the table, and throw the blanket over her. The mother hen in your also smooths her hair out her eyes, and tucks her in too, wondering if she'll remember this tomorrow. You make a guess it's probably centered around her raging toner for Stacie, and hope she didn't do anything she'll regret in 7 hours.

But right as you turn to leave so you yourself can wallow in your own unrequited crush, you hear a question.

"How do you do it, Red?" It's slightly slurred, but the meaning is clear. "How do you stand to be near her and not tell her how much every day?"

You pause in the doorway, considering pretending you never heard, and going back to your incomplete essay.

But you turn, walk yourself back to the couch, and sit down beside the one person who might understand what you're going through.

Because Aubrey, though she tries, is a straight demi-sexual, and has never delt with unrequited love for another girl. Not to mention she has a deep dislike of ear monstrosities and hip hop remixes. So if there was ever a time to get things off your conscience, to a willing audience no less, then here is your moment.

Cynthia Rose asks again, and you try to form a coherent commentary to the last 8 months, to why you have 15 memory sticks and 2 CDs of remixed music, and to why you have around 500 pictures of Beca Mitchell on your phone.

And so you tell poor, drunk and pining Cynthia Rose everything. You tell how you looked up at the Activities Fair way back in August and she was standing right across from you. And then she smiled. And of how you were hooked. You recite the story, for the first, last, and only time of how you accosted her in the shower until she sang for you, and of you know how she looked you up and down and grinned. You recite the ways you've edged your way into her life; rehearsals, coffee, and help with literature essays which, despite her parentage, she can't write for shit.

And so you both sit there while you detail the ways in which Beca pushes her hair back, and how her smirk pulls tight the left side of her face. How you see her look at Jesse, and how wish she'd look at you like that just once. Even though you know. You know that as sure as you love her, she will never love you back.  Probably.

Because just one _probably_ would make it all worthwhile, you think. To prove that it wasn't 8 months of your life spent for nothing. 8 months spent chipping at her walls, brick by brick, until you finally see her, Beca Mitchell. You live for the small smiles, and the giggling, and how she doesn't pull away from you.

And you live for that 'probably'.

It's quite when you finally stop talking. And for one moment you think your cellmate in unrequited love fell asleep. Not that you blame her, but it was nice to think she was listening.

But Cynthia Rose grabs your hand, and says what you think might finally make you cry over Beca Mitchell.

"It won't get any easier then?"

Because you wish you could tell her it does get easier to manage, but you'd be lying through your teeth. The only way for it to get easily is to let her go. Even the thought of that makes you choke. And you look at her, and you want to warn her of the next few years. How you're both living on a gamble of high stakes of love and loss. And mostly of how whatever happens, that she'll be happy because as long as Beca is happy, you know you could never complain.

But all you can do is shake your head and choke out "no", and your throat has closed up and your eyes are prickling and then hot tears are running down your cheeks.

You briefly think of how you forgot to remove your makeup, but it's soon washed over by the emotions you've buried since August.

And so you sit there, struggling not to sob in the dark at 3:19 on Thursday morning, sat beside the only person who might ever understand how much you love Beca Mitchell.

~-~


End file.
